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The laboring through what is still undone
as though legs bound we hobbled along the way
is like the awkward walking of the sawn.
And dying-to let go no longer feel
the solid ground we stand on every day-
is like his anxious letting himself fall
into the water which receives him gently
and which as though with reverence and joy
draws back past him in streams on either side;
while infinitely silent and aware
in his full majesty and ever more
indifferent he condescends to glide.
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